


August 13th

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-15
Updated: 2009-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Richie is worried, Stan is an idiot, and Gaël is a good friend. And what's this about Gilles and Jo?</p>
            </blockquote>





	August 13th

**Author's Note:**

> Set right after Stan Wawrinka lost to Roger Federer at Toronto 2009.

Stepping out of the elevator, Stan turns the corner and runs right into Gaël. 

The Frenchman greets him with a trademark grin. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." Stan walks past him, not trying particularly hard to avoid hitting Gaël with his tennis bag as he does so. Gaël follows him. "What, were you standing there waiting for me?"

"You wish." Gaël crinkles the bag of chips in his hand. "Just went to get a snack."

"Didn't anyone ever tell you junk food is bad for your body?"

"Yeah, probably." Gaël crunches on a chip, offers the bag to Stan. "Want one?"

"No, thanks." They stop at the door to Stan's hotel room. Stan gives Gaël a pointed look. Gaël munches on another chip and looks right back at him. Stan wonders if there's a nice way to tell someone to please fuck off. "Why are you still following me?"

Gaël shrugs. "Got nothing better to do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means this is the part where you invite me in, and we'll watch football or a movie or something." The bag of chips rustles in Gaël's hands. "I'll get the popcorn, if you want."

Stan turns away, searching for his card key among the various pockets of his tennis bag. "I'd prefer to be left alone right now, if you don't mind."

"It's been hours already. You're no good when you spend too much time moping by yourself."

"I'm not moping."

"Not right now, you're not. But that's because I'm here, and I'm amazing like that."

"Yeah, sure." Stan finally finds the card key. "Look. Gaël. Just...go away, all right? Please."

"Are you really gonna shut that door in my face?"

Stan kind of wants to. But Gaël is giving him a look that reminds Stan of kicked puppies and kittens abandoned in cardboard boxes and. Oh, hell. He sighs and leaves the door open behind him.

Gaël grins and follows him inside. "So what do you want to do?"

Stan dumps his tennis bag in the middle of the floor and deposits himself on the bed, resisting the urge to pull a pillow over his face. "I want you to go away."

"But you love me." Gaël hops onto the bed next to him, making the mattress bounce. He crunches away at the chips, and Stan smacks him in the arm. 

"Stop that. You'll get crumbs all over my bed."

"I'll clean it up."

"No, you won't."

Gaël seems to think about it for a moment. Then he grins. "No," he agrees, reaching into the bag for another chip. "I won't."

"Fuck you."

"Thanks, but no thanks. Richou would kill me."

Stan goes silent. Gaël stops eating. 

"Did he set you up for this?" Stan asks.

"No." 

"You're a terrible liar, you know."

"I'm not lying." Gaël pauses. "Okay, so I'm only _half_ lying. Richou didn't tell me directly―'cause he's stupid and lost my new phone number―but he called to tell Gillou to tell Jo to tell me that he's worried about you. And that you should learn to use your phone."

"What are you guys," Stan mutters, "the official French grapevine?"

Gaël pokes him in the side. "Don't change the subject."

"For your information, I do use my phone. I call Ilham every night."

"Call Richou, you idiot. He's probably out of his mind with worry by now. I bet you have a million text messages from him."

Gaël scoots off the bed and starts rummaging through Stan's tennis bag. Stan sits up, nearly knocking over the bag of chips, which Gaël left on the bed. 

"Oy, don't look through my stuff!"

"Okay. I won't." Gaël stands up, having found Stan's cell phone. He walks to the other side of the room, pressing at some buttons. The phone beeps and comes to life. 

Stan gets up and goes after him. "Gaël, stop being such an ass."

"Twenty-three new messages. I thought so." Gaël chucks the phone at him. Stan just barely manages to catch it. "And for your information, _you're_ the one being an ass. Don't you think Richou has enough to deal with right now, without your PMS-ing?"

"I am _not_ ―"

"Oh, shut it, will you? You love to argue about the unimportant stuff, but when someone wants to have a real talk, you completely clam up." Gaël crosses his arms. "You're being an ass."

"Do you always make a point of harassing your friends right after they crash out of a tournament?"

Gaël rolls his eyes. "You lost to Roger fucking _Federer_. I'd hardly call that _crashing_ out of a tournament."

Stan tosses his phone in the general vicinity of his tennis bag, not really caring where it lands. He sits down on the bed again, turning his back to Gaël. "Gilles lost today, too. Why can't you go comfort him instead?"

"I would, but I think Jo's already doing a pretty good job of it." Gaël sits down on the bed next to him. "If you know what I mean."

Stan groans. "Too much information, man."

"So are you gonna call Richou or what?"

"I'm trying to regroup from a rather painful straight sets loss, thanks."

"Talk to Richou about it."

"I'm already talking to you. You're both French. Close enough."

Gaël punches him in the arm this time. "Do I _look_ like Richou to you?"

"No." Stan shoves him back, but it's a half-hearted gesture at best. He shakes his head, then shakes his head again and covers his face with both hands. "And he looks nothing like Roger, but what difference does it make?"

"Hey." Gaël's voice is soft. He lays a hand on Stan's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "Hey, c'mon. I thought you said you were over that."

Stan laughs weakly. "Not even you really believed that."

"Well...no. Not really." Gaël drapes an arm over Stan's shoulders, shifting to sit closer to him. "But you seem better when you're around Richou. You two really have something good going on, you know?"

Stan is silent for a long moment. 

Then he says, "There's nothing going on. I'm going to marry Ilham in November, and that's all there is to it."

"You're really going to marry her?"

"She's covered up for me for all these years. I owe her this much, at least."

It's Gaël's turn to fall silent. "Have you told him?"

"He knew back in March."

Another pause.

Gaël sighs. "You two really are a pair of idiots."

"Says the idiot who's trying to relationship-counsel them."

"That's 'cause I'm just such a good friend. No need to thank me or anything."

Stan's laugh is muffled by his hands. 

They sit in silence for a while, Gaël keeping his arm around Stan's shoulders. Stan just focuses on breathing, because dammit he is _not_ going to cry about this―about any of this. Gaël is a solid presence at this side.

"Want to come hang out with me and Gillou for a bit?" Gaël asks finally. "We can crash Paulo's room. He ended up with a double, for some reason."

"I thought you said Gilles was with Jo."

"I was kidding. He's watching TV in my room. Jo actually needs to sleep, unlike the rest of us."

"I should call Ilham," Stan mumbles.

"Don't be stupid," Gaël retorts. "It's like four in the morning in Switzerland right now. Call her when you wake up tomorrow."

"Dimitri's gonna kill me for staying up so late."

"So don't tell him, then." 

Stan knows that he's out of excuses; Gaël knows that, too. He picks up the half-finished bag of chips that's been lying on the bed. "We should go get some more snacks. Gillou's probably eaten all the candy already."

Gaël offers him the chips again. Stan takes one. It tastes salty.

"Was that what you were doing when I ran into you?" he asks. "Getting more junk food?"

"No," Gaël says. "I was pacing around in the corridor, waiting for you."

Stan elbows him in the ribs. "You're an ass." 

_Thank you,_ he doesn't say.

Gaël just grins. _You're welcome, you idiot._


End file.
